


The Moment Grief Becomes a Window

by mortalcreator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Based on a Tumblr Post, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Rest Stop, Trickster Gabriel, Trickster Loki, aka the author can't write about characters actually in a relationship whoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalcreator/pseuds/mortalcreator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rest stops are transitional places, and sometimes when you enter one you don’t come out the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moment Grief Becomes a Window

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this Tumblr post](http://mortalcreator.tumblr.com/post/122244960871/duskenpath-oli-via-duskenpath-rest-stops-on), as well as the fact that Gabriel is the Angel of Revelation, as said in [this post](http://mortalcreator.tumblr.com/post/115175958095/grimanielgabriel-is-the-angel-of-revelation-you).
> 
> Set between Season 3 and Season 4, when Sam is on his own. 
> 
> Title comes from a line in Andrea Gibson's poem, [The Nutritionist](http://ohandreagibson.tumblr.com/nutritionist).

Sam pulled into the small parking lot of the rest stop and got out of the car.

He was so tired. He was tired and the Impala was full of old chips and food smells, and it was making him nauseous because he drove through the night and hadn't eaten since...since the last town.

Although it was creepy, he did make use of the restroom (which smelled and was cleaner than he would've expected. Maybe people didn’t come this way that often), and nothing catastrophic happened. Take that, Hollywood.

After finishing a few mindless housekeeping (or rather, _car_ keeping hahahaha) tasks like cleaning out the trash in the car and dusting himself down, he sat down on one of the benches. Again, they’re cleaner than he expected.

Frankly, he didn’t even lock the car. It looked like people didn’t really come there that often, and those who do did were ridiculously clean people. Which was fine, really. Sam certainly didn't complain.

It was quiet. There were a few birds chirping and every now and then a car hummed down the highway.

_Dean is dead._

Sam dry swallowed, abruptly wishing that he had a beer, but fiercely glad he didn't. It would be lukewarm, anyway, and probably flat. And he shouldn’t drink when he was nowhere near a town. Besides. He didn’t deserve to have the chemical blanket that beer would throw on his emotions.

He tried. God, if there was one thing you could say that Sam _had_  done, he tried. He had called up a demon at every crossroads, until they stopped answering. He spent days on end in Bobby’s collection without eating or sleeping, until Bobby had to physically drag him away, and sent him on half a dozen easy cases.

So he tried to emulate Dean. Drank more. Blustered more. Hell, he tried listening to Metallica, but before the first verse of the first song was over the tape was back in the box because all he could think about was the last time that Dean sang that song ( _it had been three weeks before he'd...well, they were crossing state lines and they'd been listening to the same tape for h o u r s so Sam ignored Dean's squawk of surprise when he forcefully ejected the tape and shoved in a random one, but in the end Dean just grinned and kept singing_ ). That didn’t work because now his words were so barbed that he barely could speak anymore and he couldn’t so much as turn around without being reminded that he was alone now.

It hadn't been this bad at Stanford. He’d left of his own free will back then, abused and hurting and hurting but still clinging to the security blanket knowledge that his dad and Dean were more than prepared to face anything, so Sam, the lesser of the two Winchester brothers, could take a break, maybe forever.

Sam wasn't, isn't stupid. Sometimes very, very idiotic, but not stupid. He knew how toxic the Winchester family had been. He had known that for a long time, even though it had only been in high school that he could start putting words like _emotional abuse_ and _neglect_ and _dysfunctional family_ to them. Christ, in Stanford he’d seen a therapist, who knew that Sam never told her the full truth but trusted him to eventually open up to her, and who said that he had been perfectly justified in leaving, because sometimes that’s all you can do. And there was Brady, and Jess, and his professors, and so many other people, and very, very seldomly there was an occasional call or text from Dean. Just short messages, like “Merry Christmas” or “Still alive, make sure you study”. That kind of thing.

And now there was nothing.

Well, there was Bobby, but Sam could look under the brim of the old man's ever-present trucker cap and see the sadness that ate away at him, could count the rising stack of beer bottles, could hear the sheer emptiness of the house at 3 am. And Sam couldn't bring himself to let Bobby see him spiral out, so he went on hunts further and further away.

And...there was Ruby. Ruby, who had been banished from the body she possessed, who gave Sam the knife in his belt, who hinted at powers deeper and stronger than he dared believe he might have. She hadn't approached him yet (was she still topside? Had Lilith dragged her back down to hell?), but whether it was his instincts or the prickle of demon blood that ran in his veins, _tainting_ him and everything he touched, he could feel that a meeting with her was close. They're bound to come together again like a planet knocked from orbit and a kind of dark comet if he continued like that, aimless and wandering, and he wasn't terribly anxious to see her again. As much as she'd helped and as much as he hopes that she can and wants to do good, sometimes he'd caught her looking at him in a way that simultaneously felt good and absolutely terrible, and he wasn't ready for that, to explore the true depth and intentions behind those split seconds.

He wasn't sure what it was about this place, which was beginning to raise some questions in his head, because it'd been an hour and he wasn't itching to get on the road and find a new hunt to take his mind off of Dean, off of everything. There was no pull to stay, which would have made alarm bells go off in his head, but it was like he could breathe easy and step away from the pain and loss and hurt and look at things without feeling like he was on the verge of a breakdown. It, it felt  _clean_.

Sam took in a deep breath and released it, feeling for all the world refreshed, like his head was clearer and he almost felt ready to try tackling on a life and world without Dean. Because what was the alternative? He and Bobby had spent weeks in his collection and out in the field. They'd tried everything. Surely anyone, even God, couldn't ask more?

He was so busy drinking in the strange ability to think clearly (and he knew he'd feel regret later but all that mattered right now was that he could  **breathe** ), that it took him a while to register that someone else was there with him, behind and to the back.

He turned around and saw golden eyes and golden hair and an oval face that objectively he recognized but the set was totally different and _breathtaking_. He turned around and saw the Trickster, but he ( _they? Do Tricksters even have genders?_ ) was so different in his stance, in his expression, even in the way he stood totally still and especially in the total lack of candy or anything sweet. At once, he was reminded of confronting the Trickster and begging for his brother back, and the blank looks of the carved angels in Pastor Jim's church that somehow held knowledge and peace and affection. His next inhale tasted faintly of ozone, of hidden power.

"Heya, Sam," the Trickster said. It was the same familiar lilt, like he's privy to some massive cosmic joke, but there's no cynicism, no underlying bitterness in his tone. And somehow that made him sound like a completely different person.

"What are you doing here?" Sam blurted out. He'd pinned the Trickster as a Hugh Hefner type, imagined him living in penthouses in Vegas when he wasn't doling out his version of karmic deaths. Not wandering empty rest stops in the middle of fucking nowhere.

"Enjoying the view," was the Trickster's only answer. It was short and lighthearted and there was a tension underneath, almost like he was trying to gauge Sam's reaction. For a split second, Sam wanted to—

He's reminded of the Mystery Spot suddenly, painfully, almost as if someone was viscerally dragging that memory forward, shoving it in his face desperately to remind him that this small, peaceful-looking being is totally inhuman. Monsters and things that go bump in the night rarely ever adhere to human standards of morality, reveling in shades of blue and orange* as lives piled up around them.

Mystery Spot was a _lesson_ , the Trickster said. And while Sam would never admit it under pain of torture (torture Dean was probably going through), he did learn. Looking back, he was terrified of the way he'd unraveled, of how he had become a mirror image of his father. Looking back he could see how easily someone could have seen through the desperately tough veneer he put on and shattered it, how easily they could have dropped a hint that they knew something about the Trickster and lead him along, too blinded by pain and hatred to see where they were taking him.

He had learned. So why was the Trickster here?

During the long silence wherein Sam forgot that responding to people was a thing, the Trickster's face slowly closed back to a more familiar set. Sam didn't see it, though, staring down at his lap like answers might fall there.

"Dean is dead," was all he could force out, horrified by the blurring in his vision that accompanied that. Maybe the magic of this place was wearing down, or maybe it was saying it out loud, making it sound so final. A silent question followed behind: _Is this what you wanted?_

The Trickster's face softened again, a little. _No, Sam. It's not._

"He is," he said, and this time Sam did look up, because for once there was no laughter, no twisted amusement. Just sorrow carved in shoulders, etched in sunshine eyes. "And Sammy, there's nothing you can do about it. Dean's gone."

Unbidden, the dam in him cracked at his familiar nickname.

"Don't call me that," he said thickly. "Don't call me Sammy. Only Dean gets to say that." He covered his face, struggling against the tears.

The metal bench creaked as the Trickster sat down beside him.

“It’s OK to cry, Sam,” he said softly, looking up at the sky.

A bird called and took wing, and Sam Winchester finally cried.

The Trickster watched with the eyes that wanted to comfort, but settled for guarding the hunter in his vulnerable moment. To human eyes he sat supernaturally still, barely even breathing to afford Sam the illusion of privacy. Comfort is a thing rarely sought by the Winchesters, after all, and despite the long months that had passed even he admitted that his hands were still covered in Dean’s blood.

Had someone been standing at just the right angle and at just the right time, they might have caught a glimpse of something that looked like the sun dancing off of the edge of something. And had they been the right kind of person (or non-person), they would have seen three huge, brilliantly golden wings curled protectively around the human.

Thought he did not know it, at that moment Sam Winchester was the safest he had been in a very, very long time.

* * *

Eventually, Sam’s sobs petered down into the tentative hiccups of someone who rarely cried, and was unsure if to continue or stop. Wordlessly, the Trickster conjured up a box of tissues, and he scrubbed his face clean.

"Feel better?" he asked gently. Sam nodded, slowly, looking almost surprised that something like _crying_ could be healing, in its own way.

“Yeah,” he said softly, voice still rough from crying, and the Trickster was suddenly overcome with the urge to _do something_. But what could he do for Sam Winchester, the future Boy King?

He was struck by visions of Sam, all clenched jaw and icy determination, leading a troop of grinning demons. Of him gaining control of his demon blood-gifted powers, using prophecy and exorcism to lead his grim army to victory, of him sitting on a throne of yew and fir, crowned with belladonna and mandrake.**

And for the first time in...well, in too long, Gabriel wanted to take (heaven forbid) responsibility for that to never, ever happen.

So he got up and stood in front of Sam, whispering “hold still, will you?”. And to their mutual surprise, the hunter did.

Sam’s eyes fell closed as the Trickster brushed his hair to the side with achingly kind hands and pressed soft, dry lips on his forehead. He gently left his mark on Sam, for eyes to see that could.

And it was totally not a giant neon “THIS IS MINE, TOUCH AND DIE” sign. Totally.

He moved to step back, but Sam’s arms fell to his waist, pressing his face gently to the Trickster’s stomach.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, not unlike a child would. “Please don’t leave me.” _Not like Dad, and Mom, not like Jess, not like Dean, please, not like Dean._

For a split second, swifter than human thought, Gabriel was reminded of a place a very long time ago, of electric blue and black and of a love brighter than stars that whispered the same thing.

Part of him rebelled, but did not recoil. He was Loki, he was wind and serpent and wolf, he was swift and untamed as his adopted children, he took heed of no one’s counsel or beseeching prayers. He was not going to start with—with this human.

But part of him already said yes, already brought his hands to run through satin-soft hair. He was very, very tired, after all. Even ang—gods needed rest at some point, rest from a constant mummer’s play. His pagan family was restless, agitated because of what they had seen in pools and smoke and what passed for dreams for them. They saw a Judeo-Christian apocalypse of brimstone and fire and heavenly fury and really anyone would be angry to see that they would die powerless in a catastrophe not of their making. Some were giving him long, suspicious looks, looks that hinted at knowing more than they should.

Besides, he _knew_ what was going to happen to Sam if he didn’t stick by. He could see it like a bright red ribbon, flowing away from him and back into the arms of the demoness who would eventually seduce the Boy King with romance and revenge, who would drown him in demon blood and blind his compassion and empathy until nothing remained but the cry of his hatred.

No one had ever accused the Trickster of being generous with his favorites before, and he wasn’t going to start now.

And most of all, he recognized this for what it was. Not a declaration of love or intent, not even a promise of camaraderie. This was just a desperately lonely soul desperate for something, someone to anchor themselves to. Anything to escape the yawning terror of life alone.

He should know, after all. He'd lived it.

“Never,” he said, tightening his embrace around Sam’s head and weaving the one word into a promise, an oath. Unseen by Sam, he pooled a little more power into the action, Grace chasing briefly through the boy’s veins, healing hurts new and old, patching up his liver (because good Christ the boy was downing bottles like candy bars), burning away the remnants of the newer demon blood and beating back the old, powerful blood into a metaphorical corner.

He did feel it, though, and when he pulled away he looked a little younger, a little less careworn. A little more like Sam Winchester.

"What...what did you do?" Sam whispered, looking up (for once) with hazel eyes that were curious and a little afraid. So tenuous was the moment that a louder sound would have shattered it.

Gabriel opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he did, but a flood of questions comes at the thought’s heels. What if it was too much? What if Sam rejected it? What if later Sam thought he was trying to take advantage of him, in this vulnerable state?

“Fixed up your liver, kiddo, and a couple other things. Your alcohol problems were developing alcohol problems, I swear,” he joked weakly. Still, a corner of Sam’s mouth twitched, so he counted it as a victory.

"Do you," Sam started shyly, "do you want to drive with me for a bit? It's kinda boring not getting to talk to anyone." Gabriel grinned.

"Sure, why not?"

Rest stops are liminal, places where nothing stays but the benches and the bathrooms and the inescapable feeling of never being alone. They are the modern day fairy rings, stone archways, and forest paths.

Sam pulled onto the highway, laughing for the first time in ages and ages as the (archangel Gabriel) Trickster, boots on the dash, made the radio play Taylor Swift and told him stories about the pranks he’d pulled on other demigods (highlights of which included stealing the Golden Apple from Aphrodite after the Trojan War, hanging out with Yan Wang so he could check up on some of the assholes he’d offed, and stealing the _entire ocean_ because Yemoja upset him once)***. Even when he was bent over the steering wheel, tears in his eyes, the car never veered off course.

Occasionally, the gears of the universe turn in your favor. Sam Winchester had walked into a rest stop with nothing but a car and lethal amounts of guilt, and he left with a guardian archangel.

And frankly? Both of them were over the moon about that. 

**Author's Note:**

> *"reveling in shades of blue and orange": a reference to [Blue and Orange Morality](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BlueAndOrangeMorality)
> 
> **"a throne of yew and fir, crowned with belladonna and mandrake": Yew and fir are trees that are considered to have magic properties, while belladonna and mandrake are flowers associated with witches.
> 
> ***"highlights of which included stealing the Golden Apple from Aphrodite after the Trojan War, hanging out with Yan Wang so he could check up on some of the assholes he’d offed, and stealing the entire ocean because Yemaya upset him once": Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love, who won the Golden Apple (said to be given to the most beautiful of all the Greek Goddesses) from Paris, thus beginning the Trojan War. Yan Wang is the Chinese god of death, and Yemoja is the Yoruba mother goddess of the ocean.
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, I can finally concentrate on my Sabriel Big Bang! If any of you guys are interested, [these lovely people](http://sabrielbigbang.tumblr.com/) are running it this year, and you still have time to sign up as a writer, artist, beta reader, or cheerleader! 
> 
> Speaking of cheerleaders, many thanks to Aleatory and samoosethemoose for reading this and encouraging me to keep working! This wouldn't be here without them uvu.
> 
> As always, you can find me [on Tumblr](http://mortalcreator.tumblr.com/) if I missed a tense or if you just want to talk about these two idiots!


End file.
